


In Xanadu

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Christabel - Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dear Deepdarkwaters, I'm so very sorry for subjecting you to this. I hope that the idea of terrible, mostly-unrhymed free verse will not put you off too much, and that some of my undying enthusiasm for this poem and my sincerest intentions come through in this. </p><p>I love that you chose this poem and this pairing. Thank you! :-)</p>
    </blockquote>





	In Xanadu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



> Dear Deepdarkwaters, I'm so very sorry for subjecting you to this. I hope that the idea of terrible, mostly-unrhymed free verse will not put you off too much, and that some of my undying enthusiasm for this poem and my sincerest intentions come through in this. 
> 
> I love that you chose this poem and this pairing. Thank you! :-)

‘For this is you,’ says Geraldine,  
Placing Christabel’s hand upon her own flesh,  
Her blackened skin, hid from sight by garments rich.  
‘This scar,’ says she, ‘borne from birth,  
Resembling so closely a mark of malignance,  
Is but a reminder of things unseen—Oh, my sister in love!’

Beside them, a river of sacred blue:  
Its surface still, as though of glass—  
Or shards of the finest crystal, perhaps—  
Or perhaps a dream made flesh and bone,  
Not magic, but truth: such as a single red leaf atop a tree  
Or a single curl on Christabel’s cheek.  
A secret leaf, a secret curl—  
Visible but to two  
Now ever bound: haply with magic, haply with truth.

Maid no more, Christabel writhes upon her leafy bed  
Of softest green, made precious by time and loss  
And delights endless; spurred by passion and envy,  
She returns what she is given.  
With each passing moment, they soar:  
Made one in flesh, invisible indelible brands upon their conjoined skin  
Such as they can scarce tell each other apart.

‘This I beseech you,’ Christabel asks,  
‘Tell me where this place is,  
And how much time has passed  
Since last we knew each other.’  
She cannot tell when silken cords bound her fast  
Her limbs outspread, her skin still aglow  
With touch and light and flame.  
‘This much I have learnt:  
This cannot last. But leave me the imprint of your touch, I pray  
For life is long, and thought is all there is.’

‘Alas, my lady.’  
Geraldine’s sorrow is clear upon her brow,  
Her eyes ablaze with pain of loss,  
With faery light and knowledge ancient.  
‘Ask not what I cannot provide.  
But I grant you this: your being shall remember,  
Even if your heart does not.  
Sweet tabula rasa, keep on your tender skin  
The memory of ghostly, forbidden fingers  
That, drenched with your desire,  
Entered you body and soul  
And left upon you a mark  
That no words of shame or sorrow shall ever deface.’

The lady begs; oh, how she pleads!  
How she shakes upon her bed of leaves,  
Slickened and dampened by their deeds,  
Cajoles and prays and threatens,  
And all the while, no single tear escapes the lady’s eyes.  
Her skin is wrought by bruises dark—  
With all her might she pulls, and pulls  
Against the cords that hold her fast!  
And yet, not escape she seeks, but remembrance—  
Of things not yet past.

Geraldine’s lips form sounds unknown,  
Words of magic, drawn from memory—  
Wandering, solitary words, swiftly snatched by the wind—  
Sounds imprinted on leaves of green.  
Her mark on Christabel again she lays,  
Tongues words on Christabel’s skin,  
Draws from the lady the sweetest sounds  
Of passion and grief.

Before too long, the hour is past.  
Clouds approach—  
Behold how swiftly they drown the sun  
In its sparkling sky!  
Distant birds crow their protests, loud and unnatural.  
Ere the crowing ceases  
The lady is once again as a child  
Turning her face to the light from her lamp,  
As she was wont to do in Langdale Hall—  
Here, the sun—see how it struggles to surround the lady with light,  
Despite its steady sinking!  
Unconscious of her bonds, the lady sighs and rolls her head  
Upon its cushion. For but this moment  
Constancy lives not above  
But here in Geraldine’s arms,  
As shapeful as a shriek that sounds  
From a besieged valley in a far country.

Memories from the lady are robbed,  
But now she cares not, her cries forgotten,  
Her mind marooned in the remnants of bliss  
And whispered words unknown.  
Like a shade curls forgetfulness over her heart,  
Her senses hostaged by deeds unrecollected  
That appear as flickers on the walls behind her eyes,  
Their colours too vast for her human senses.

And thus the lady lives her days  
Wandering through a faery land  
Praying at an old oak tree  
Forever unremembering of a woman fit for dreams rather than life.

And yet sometimes—just sometimes—  
On nights that are chilly but not dark—  
On nights when imagined ghasts roam Christabel’s land  
And summon the lady to fitful sleep—  
From the fountain of her fancy rises a spectre strange:  
A lady in white, with jewelled hair and anguished smile  
Who guides her amidst a labyrinth devoid of light.

The lady remembers not  
The hours of secret love and secret loss  
But upon her breast there lingers, unseen but not unfelt,  
The ghost of lips stained with love.  
Within her move phantom fingers with care  
Tracing words of unknown magic.  
And somewhere in the recesses of her mind  
A memory waits, bides its time  
Seeps into her dreams,  
Shatters the glassy river,  
Rends the frozen fabric of time.  
‘Pray no more, sweet Christabel!’  
It cries.  
‘Your time shall come.’

Somewhere ages hence, she may yet awaken on a night both chilly and dark,  
Her mind alight with remembrance and wrath.  
Her eyes may fall upon that familiar dark scar,  
That mirror within which she first perceived  
That she was more than what she thought.  
And tangling with her hair may rest  
Bejewelled strands that wink and shine,  
Reflecting memory and magic and rhyme.  
Forgiveness may come easily, then,  
Easier than wrath and easier than shame.

This she imagines, in dreams unremembered,  
Her life unlived, her being lost,  
And yet, and yet—in times of strife, she hears echoes of words forgotten  
And hears the wind revived—again—  
And hears the river’s water splash and furl  
And hears the sleepy birds  
And hears a castle clock  
Chime an hour that’s not yet lost.  
And feels a breeze that does not stir  
The single curl upon her cheek.  
The tree still stands, its leaf unmoving,

And life is still thorny  
And youth is still vain  
And there is still a madness in her brain  
And yet, and yet—  
More sane is she than most who loved and lost  
For the fountain of memory aids her when she calls—  
In dreams she lives, and haply in dreams she will die,  
For all must bend over when the sky commands.  
And yet, and yet—


End file.
